Standard Mail Postage
by Juliedoo
Summary: "I don't want our son to inherit your sick obsession with misshapen rabbits."


-oOo-

She's so annoying he wants to stuff her in a mail box. It wouldn't even be that hard to do. She's the size of an angry little gerbil shrunken after five cycles in the dryer, and if he tried he could make her fit. Some duct tape, a couple of strained shoves, a stamp adhered to her ass, flag up, and then she's the postal worker's problem. If she didn't bite the poor bastard, she'd probably end up shipped to wherever it is you take rabid chihuahuas for euthanization. And then the world would be a lot less irritating.

A shoe rams into his shin. Ichigo hisses and jerks back, hopping on one foot as he cradles his throbbing leg. For a person with all the physical presence of a gnat, Rukia kicks like a friggen mule.

"Ow! What was that for, you crazy midget!?"

He's never understood how a woman who barely comes up to his chest manages to look down her nose at him, but Rukia has got the Snooty Kuchiki Princess expression _down_. It's his private suspicion that she and Byakuya bond as siblings by practicing being superior together, but either way that haughty look just pisses him off. Damn fussy rich kids.

"You were ignoring me when I was talking to you, fool," she sniffs, crossing her twiggy arms over her toothpick chest.

"I was listening!" he denies immediately, and it's even sort of true. Something about onesies and yellow paint and shopping. Bah.

"Mmmhmm." A low sound in her throat. Two syllables, just like _bull shit_. "I asked you what you thought about doing a Chappy theme?" she repeats impatiently.

"I don't want our son to inherit your sick obsession with misshapen rabbits," Ichigo insists. He's very adamant about this.

Rukia is aghast, and she lets him know with an affronted scowl, brows worming together, bruise colored eyes narrowing. Her hands plant themselves on her slim hips, emphasizing the swollen bump of her stomach. "There's nothing wrong with rabbits! And they're not misshapen, you big dumb ginger!"

"Bunnies aren't manly, you ankle biting troll!"

"Who cares if a _nursery _is _manly_? Not our baby. He won't have the cognitive skills to give a shit until years from now," she argues, waddling over to the couch and slumping down with a huff, aiming another glare his way.

"How do you know? Early exposure to something like that could traumatize him." It's a very logical point. And Ichigo is a doctor. He has the credentials and the diploma and years of medical school under his belt and therefore more knowledge of hypothetical infant-rabbit trauma than his wife, who is technically dead. And dead people can't have children anyway, so her argument is invalid.

Wait. "I've confused myself."

"That's not surprising," she quips. And then she grimaces, rubbing her lower back.

He's at her side at the first twitch of the frown. "What is it? Do you need a pillow or something? How about some ice cream? How bad does it hurt? Maybe you should lay down."

"Calm down, Ichigo." She swats his fretting away, but her tone is considerably warmer than before. "He's just kicking a little, that's all."

"Oh," he deflates, hovering awkwardly. "Well, uh, he shouldn't. Real men don't kick women. I'm going to have a word with him when he pops out of you."

She sighs. "Don't act like Isshin, Ichigo. It's creepy."

"Wha—fuh—huh?" he sputters. "The _hell _I act like that old bastard!"

Her lips curl impishly as she squints up at him through her thick lashes. "Ever since I told you I was pregnant, you've been on a sanctimonious daddy trip. And what's that on your chin?" She points. "That looks like scruff. A few more days and you'll have a goatee."

"No I won't!" he protests desperately. This is so ridiculous—she couldn't possibly—_no_. It's all a lie, a hormone induced hallucination. "I'm out of shaving cream! You're imagining things. I'm fine. _You're _pregnant."

"And you're not making any sense," Rukia snorts.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Whirls around and stomps for the front door.

"Where are you going?" his wife asks with vague interest.

"Store," he grits out. "To get shaving cream. And _stamps_."

"Oh. Get me some coconut juice. And a magazine!"

The door slams.

Rukia blinks and absently pats her round tummy. "Your daddy is is very weird," she tells it. "Honestly. What sort of man is emasculated by cartoon rabbits? I think he took one too many punches to the head when he was younger."

The baby kicks her spleen in agreement.


End file.
